


and I'm like falling water, set me free

by aflashofgreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Future Fic, Marriage of Convenience, Sansa Stark-centric, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: Sansa resents these childish dreams of hers she can’t let go of despite the years. She resents them as much as she cherishes them.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 244





	and I'm like falling water, set me free

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fallingwater by Maggie Rogers.

“I can sleep on the couch,” Jon says, already reaching for a fur, but she refuses to let him.

“Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of room.”

Jon looks like he might protest, but eventually opts for a sigh as he obliges and she is thankful not to have to press him further tonight.

They are silly, the both of them. _Jon wishes to protect my virtue when there is nothing left of it and I would sleep beside my husband on our wedding night, like I were some foolish girl still._

_Like this were a normal wedding night and Jon were not my former brother._

“Life is not a song,” a voice inside her whispers. Sansa shuts her eyes until it fades away and all she hears is the quiet again. The quiet and Jon making his way towards her.

Sansa resents these childish dreams of hers she can’t let go of despite the years. She resents them as much as she cherishes them.

Jon has finally joined her on the bed. She’s already blown out the candle by her side and when he blows the last on his, the only remaining light comes from the sputtering fire dying in the hearth and the faint glow of the moon, which bathes the chamber in a strange blue tinted hue. They can hear faint noises from the feast as the party continues and Sansa idly wonders at how many men will find their luck tonight.

Jon should be finding his right now, but of course he wouldn’t touch her and that thought makes her grateful for her husband.

She almost wishes she could see him clearly, even as she knows she would never dare stare at him so intently in the light of day. Darkness makes her bold and it is so much easier to mold Jon to her fantasies when she can hardly make out his face.

Fantasies, dreams, songs. They all mean the same thing and not at all.

Sansa might have called it love once, but the woman she is wonders what could she truly know of such a feeling. She thinks it might look something like her Mother and her Father and their strong lasting bond she remembers from her youth, but that sounds too close to a childish fancy and she doesn’t linger on those anymore.

If she did, however, she might point out how Jon grows more and more like Ned Stark every day in both looks and character, if only more sullen. She might say the reflection in her mirror makes her long for her lady mother to appear next to her so they might compare shades of red and blue and laugh, laugh, laugh.

There is twisted poetry in it all, she thinks, and she is back at the start. _What use do I have for poems? I am a woman grown, a Queen and a wife now. A Stark and Starks do their duty, as do Tullys._ She would not be lying in this bed, next to this man were it different.

She glances at Jon again. His eyes are closed, but she doubts he is sleeping. Only hours ago, they had knelt together before the heart tree and Sansa had thought of her family, the living and the dead and offered her blessings instead of praying for theirs. To the Old Gods themselves, she had no words. When she was done, Jon was looking at her, a slight look of alarm on his long solemn face. The face of a Stark.

Smiling at him had been so easy.

No, Sansa Stark has no use for poems and songs, nor their varying meaning. But it’s a wisdom she keeps close to her heart anyway.

She had not prayed in the godswood, but here in the dark, with no eyes on her, she tells herself to be brave. So instead of calling it love, here’s what she’ll say. It’s promises never uttered so they can never be broken and it’s vows proclaimed proud and defiant, a challenge to the future.

It’s the knowledge that Jon won’t harm her, not intentionally, not like that. That perhaps the past they share is too large and the memories between them too heavy for love to grow; the kind a couple should share and the one she has never known. And if she can never love him any different way, she will love Jon regardless, the way she has since she was born.

And she loves Jon, she does. What other reason did she have for suggesting this marriage? Family, duty, honor. “Family comes first,” Bran had told her not a sennight ago. When Jon had asked her the same question, she had answered honestly that she meant to protect herself with this match as much she sought to keep him safe. The Lady of Winterfell she might be, but greedy men would always overrule women, even the she-wolves.

Jon Snow is not a greedy man. He is a Stark and when finally, finally, days later he had acquiesced to their union, she had a feeling he might have wanted to protect her just as much.

She remembers though, how he had initially argued that she was free to choose her husband now or not at all. That he might be King, but would never offer her hand to anyone unless she wished him to. That he would put an end to the delusions of these men that sought after her claim. Sansa had replied that she had chosen.

“Let me protect you too,” she had added. “Let me keep Winterfell under Stark rule.”

_Family comes first, yes. Jon is no Tully, but he is a wolf as I am and the pack survives._

Her father comes to mind again. He has been in her thoughts so often these past days even though Sansa would rather not think of him in this current situation. But what other circumstances would conjure up the thought: that winter came for House Stark before, but he’d rebuilt their family. Her next thought comes as quick and almost unwanted. _I want to do the same._ There are so many people, so many voices inside of Sansa now that it’s almost a surprise when her own makes it past, unchallenged. She does though, doesn’t she? It is not a revelation, but it scares her all the same.

Her instinct is to dress it all up in duty, for duty is a language she understands. The North needs an heir after all. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Yet beyond these truths, Sansa knows she will welcome their children for the same reason she would welcome Jon.

But not tonight.

Sansa realizes she has been clutching at the covers when she turns fully towards Jon and has to unclench her fists so she can raise a hand towards him. The urge overtakes her and she can’t help it, wanting to feel close to her husband.

Beneath her fingers, she can feel the scar mapped across his brow. She only means to trace it, but a single caress of her thumb and Jon has caught her wrist. For a breath, it just hangs in the air before he sets her arm down on the pillow. His shoulder is near enough that she can feel the warmth it radiates. Jon doesn’t let go, but his grip is gentle — it’s always gentle.

_“I take this man.”_

Jon had reached for her hand as they lead the way out of the godswood. There had hardly been any cheers and the applause had been polite instead of boisterous. _And it couldn’t have made a difference to my ears compared to the fanfare inside my chest._

There’s the echo of laughter in the distance and Sansa remembers their bannermen still enjoying the wedding feast. This part of the night, at least, they could fully get behind. The thought makes her speak her next words.

“I am glad of it, our marriage. You should know it, Jon.”

There is no answer, save for the soft brush of his curls against the pillow as he angles his face towards her, his warm breath now on her hand where it rests between them. The fire has burnt out and she can barely make out his features with the closest source of light coming from the window on the wall behind him, but she thinks he must see her better than she can and decides to continue.

“Will you believe me now that I’ve said it?” She asks, extending one rebellious finger to poke his jaw. He’d shaved his beard short for today and Sansa wonders what it would feel like to touch the same path when the hair’s grown back.

“You should sleep,” is his answer. Sansa takes her hand back.

With three words he brings her back to feeling like a little girl. How naive of her to think there was a way to make things easier. “You’re infuriating, you know.”

He matches her childishness with his reply. “For all nights to come.”

“Isn’t that a Night’s Watch vow?”

He isn’t looking at her anymore. “I’m only saying. You picked me.”

“Yes, Jon, I did. That’s my point. I didn’t think I’d want to be married again, least of all so soon, but–” She doesn’t really know how to make him understand. She is even less sure he’d want to, or would like what she has to say. “It doesn’t have to be bad,” is what she settles on.

“This is not what you dreamed of as a girl.” There’s anger in his voice. _I was right._

“I don’t mind.” _Do you really hate me, Jon, so soon?_

“I won’t bother you further,” she adds before he can reply and give an answer to her silent question. She turns to face the wall instead of her husband, pulling the covers around her shoulders again. She’d felt so brave only moments ago, but that was all gone now. How she wishes she was truly a girl again, with infallible beliefs. Sansa is too smart to think the blankets would keep her safe now. They only keep her in this bed, fighting the urge to get up and leave the room. She pulls them tighter still.

Jon’s voice disturbs the darkness. “I fear I’ll disappoint you.”

Silence stretches as she considers not answering at all, but that thought dies quickly. She won’t be petty tonight.

“When I came to you, Jon,” she finally says, “you didn’t have to agree. You could have married anyone you wanted, but I could never put myself in the power of a stranger. You would treat me kindly, if not lovingly, would you not? That is all I ever imagined when I asked you to be my husband. I’m not so selfish that I expect you to love me, but I chose to be your wife and I would fill that role proudly. That is all.”

Behind her, she hears him take in a deep breath and exhale before he speaks again.

“You deserve more than kindness, Sansa. When you speak as you did, I can’t help, but remember you as a girl. She deserves more too.”

 _Deserves._ Present, not past. Another kindness from her husband to the girl who spent most of her childhood ignoring her bastard half-brother. A kindness to the woman he agreed to marry out of a misplaced sense that he owed it to her somehow, to protect her when she’d told him he couldn’t, but was willing to let him try anyway. Had asked him to.

Sansa did deserve more, but there is nothing to gain in forever mourning what wasn’t nor is. Yet she’d let him make it real — if only he wanted to. He’s not wrong in thinking there is resignation on her part, but Sansa is a coward no longer at least. For the second time that evening, she faces Jon and the truths that lie ahead.

“You’re not the same boy you were either,” she answers calmly.

“No, but my dreams remain.” The shame on his face is a surprise and now she’s curious.

“Will you share them with me?”

It’s almost shy, the way he answers _I would_. Somehow she feels more nervous now than she has all night.

“When you offered me the Stark name and Winterfell,” Jon continues, “a future with children, a life spent alongside a bright loving wife–” The words linger in the air, permeate her skin. “I’m selfish too.” He’s looking at her with eyes that are hopeless desperation and hopeless hunger. “I would share it all with you, Sansa.”

 _Why should it be hopeless?_ The dream may become real yet. She feels like crying, she feels like dancing. She doesn’t want to talk anymore.

“Kiss me, Jon.”

This request he fills promptly.

Their marriage may never be worthy of a song, Sansa thinks, but when Jon cradles her face and gently presses his lips to hers, his kiss tastes of the sweetest promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before season 8 premiered, but only finished it tonight. It's all over the place and though it was intentional for the most part, I'm not quite sure about the result. Feedback is greatly appreciated!


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